


this time i'm dying

by wednesdayevening



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, BAMF Wilbur Soot, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Violence, Necromancy, Older Sibling Wilbur Soot, TommyInnit Angst (Video Blogging RPF), do i tag that i have no clue, everyones a little ooc but. shh, i speedran this so fast, no beta we die like men, the quality is. debatable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-18 02:14:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28610421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wednesdayevening/pseuds/wednesdayevening
Summary: It’s raining. It’s raining, and Ghostbur is melting, and L’Manberg is gone and Friend is dead and his father hates him and where is Technoblade where are all his friends - but it doesn’t matter. It’s raining, and Ghostbur is hurting, but it doesn’t matter. In a second, he won’t feel anymore. Ghostbur won’t. Wilbur will.or, ghostbur has had enough.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Wilbur Soot, Niki | Nihachu & Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot & Friend, Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot/Friend, all mentioned - Relationship, never thought id fucking tag that
Comments: 48
Kudos: 544





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> spoilers for todays stream! this fic. is a mess. enjoy the angst

It’s raining. It’s raining, and Ghostbur is melting, and L’Manberg is gone and Friend is dead and his father hates him and where is Technoblade where are all his friends - but it doesn’t matter. It’s raining, and Ghostbur is hurting, but it doesn’t matter. In a second, he won’t feel anymore. Ghostbur won’t. Wilbur will. 

Ghostbur is not afraid. Not afraid of the man in front of him hunched over his enchantment book, communicator clenched tightly in a white-knuckled fist, not afraid of coming back to life. He used to feel so much happiness - used to be able to fix sadness, but he’s run out of blue and he’s got nothing left to give. Maybe Wilbur has something left in him.

Fundy had told him stories of the previous version of himself. His son had sat him down and told tales of a charismatic man who desired nothing but freedom and went too far, who stitched the first flag together himself, who stood by a country that he had fought so hard for. The story of a man who was exiled and forgot himself, a man who decided that if he couldn’t have the country he built, nobody could. A man who blew apart the homes of his closest confidants, his former comrades.

It’s hard to believe that he - that Alivebur did that. That his alive self committed atrocities that to this day still scar L’Manberg’s residents. Ghostbur used to think that if Alivebur were a separate entity, not tied to his own soul, that he would strongly dislike him. The old Ghostbur would’ve never wanted Alivebur back. 

“That was before Friend died,” Ghostbur whispers. 

Across the room, Dream looks up. “You okay, Wilbur?” 

“Ghostbur,” He says. “I’m Ghostbur.” 

Dream tilts his head to the side in a non-committal nod and turns back to the table in front of him. Ghostbur watches with mild interest as he scribbles something down in a notebook and then turns the page of the thick book in front of him. It takes both of Dream’s hands to turn one page, and he does so with practiced ease. Ghostbur supposes it is his most precious possession. He wonders how Dream would feel if it were to die, like Friend. 

“You sure about this, Ghostbur? There’s no going back. I don’t think you can even come back if Wilbur dies again.” 

Ghostbur stares at his hands. He can see the antersite floor through them, and he immediately thinks of his sewers. He smiles. He built those sewers from scratch - from the ground up, well, the underground, up, but still. He spent hours carving out tunnels. Days fixing a working plumbing system. Weeks collecting books for his library. 

_ And for what,  _ he thinks bitterly, remembering.  _ All that time spent on my home, and for nothing. They blew it up, like it was nothing. Phil -  _

Oh. Phil. 

Ghostbur sinks to the floor. He doesn’t really touch it - he never really touches anything, just hovers a mere milimetre above the ground, legs crumpled beneath him. Dream is saying something, maybe - someone is saying something, but it doesn’t matter. What matters? Nothing, because L’Manberg is gone and Friend is gone and Ghostbur. Ghostbur cannot mend it anymore. 

“ _Phil,_ _why did you - why did you blow up L’Manberg?”_

_ “We needed to send a message, Wil.” _

Wil. Wilbur. Wilbur - Alivebur, not Ghostbur. Not him. It was okay, though, Ghostbur thought, because Phil would have Wilbur back soon. He wouldn’t have Ghostbur anymore. Because - because - maybe Ghostbur was the problem. Maybe - his blue, his unfiltered innocence, maybe the seeds of peace he’d scattered in the fertile soil of L’Manberg with a face-splitting grin were the problem. 

_ “I’m sorry. Maybe you’ll understand someday.”  _

_ Understand what?  _ Ghosts cannot cry, and he is no exception, but the little room Dream had arranged to fix him in is suddenly blurry.  _ Understand what, Dad? _

“ - can you hear me? Are you ready, Wilbur?”  Ghostbur doesn’t have the energy to correct him. He nods. Wets his lips with unsaid words. Hesitates. Dream dips his head in permission, and he speaks. “Thank you. For freeing me.”

Dream turns away at that. His mask glints in the florescuent pulsating light of his book. “Freeing you,” Dream echoes, surprised. He raises his hand.

Ghostbur watches as Dream draws enchantments in the air. He glances around, at the blackened sky through the window, at the ruined country underneath it. He takes it all in, eats the sight up. It’s the last time he’ll see it. He closes his eyes, and sings.

“ _ I heard there was a special place, where men could go and emancipate _ .” 

There’s a swiping through the air as Dream’s hand paints the command. A buzzing sound fills the ear. Somewhere, Ghostbur can hear a guitar - a lonely F chord, a forlorn D minor. B flat. C. 

“ _ The brutality, and tyranny of their rulers _ .” 

The buzzing grows louder. Dream’s hand has stopped. “ _ My L’Manberg _ .” 

He thinks of Friend, and wonders if he’ll ever cart his hand through their wool again. “ _ My L’Manberg _ .” 

He thinks of Phil, his father, of the grin in his voice when he told Ghostbur what he’d done. He thinks of Technoblade, his brother, his  _ twin,  _ of his bloodlust for anarchy and chaos. He thinks of his little brother Tommy, of Lads On Tour, of blown up Logstedshire, of Tommy’s terrified yet determined face under the shining scrute helmet. There is nothing left to live for. “ _ My L’Manberg _ .” 

He doesn’t want to think anymore. The buzzing stops. The chords stop.

“ _ My L’Manberg _ .” 

Wilbur Soot opens his eyes. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilbur Soot opens his eyes. 
> 
> Revival is like waking up tired, he’ll realise later. He comes to with a foggy mind, thoughts askew and scattered like autumn leaves, crumpled and brown and dry. There is a blissful second of nothingness as his brain scrambles to keep up, and then - 
> 
> Everything hits at once. Memories of Technoblade, the withers, Dream, the explosives, his father, Tommy - 
> 
> Oh, fuck. Tommy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wasnt sure if i should even publish this but oh well. not sure if it makes sense at all i speedran this on a road trip with no wifi and half a braincell. enjoy some wilbur rioting <3

Wilbur Soot opens his eyes. 

Revival is like waking up tired, he’ll realise later. He comes to with a foggy mind, thoughts askew and scattered like autumn leaves, crumpled and brown and dry. There is a blissful second of nothingness as his brain scrambles to keep up, and then - 

Everything hits at once. The leaves are raked up, and, like a child, he jumps in. He remembers the wars, his brothers, his father. A ranch house, a guitar. Blackstone walls, a determined girl, a beautiful son, a wife. A blurry mind, a ground-shaking rumble, debris, a father’s sword, his bleeding ribcage.  _ These are all mine _ , he thinks, and then realises there are someone else’s memories here, too. 

Logstedshire, a bell atop a log, a blue sheep. Ghostbur’s memories are limited and brimming with innocence, but he revisits them with a new, hardened eye and discovers what’s hidden, what his old self missed.

He sees his father for the first time, properly. Phil, who was always held on the highest pedestal. He was Wilbur’s idol from the moment the man had adopted him to the second his explosives detonated in L’Manberg. He’d trusted Phil, with Friend, with Tommy, with his country, and his father had betrayed that trust. 

Technoblade. The favourite child. Wilbur wonders absently if he forgot the meaning of anarchism. Techno was always so set on destroying the country of L’Manberg and blaming his desperation to do so on the ideas of anarchy and not on revenge. Techno had been executed, he remembers. L’Manberg, like most, had failed him, - but his perfect brother had resorted to the draconian technique of simply blowing it to shreds. _At least he cared for Tommy_ , Wilbur thinks. _Techno cared when no-one else did._

He sees Tommy - Tommy’s exile. Between his and Ghostbur’s revisited memories, there is a lot lacking - massive gaps in Tommy’s mental health. He goes from seemingly-content to shattered far too quickly in Wilbur’s recollections. He doesn’t know what happened in the time he missed, but he can take an educated guess. (“I’ll take care of the invitations, I’m Tommy’s only friend. Give them to me, Ghostbur, and go and - go take a walk.”)

Out of everything, it is this realisation that strikes a chord within his newly-beating heart. L’Manberg had betrayed his brother - himself included. Everyone had failed him. Wilbur can see now how he hurt Tommy, how he mistreated and downright - downright  _ abused _ him in Pogtopia. Wilbur knows he can’t undo the past, but he can - he  _ needs  _ to make sure nothing happens like this in the future. 

“Wilbur?” 

He stirs. He’d been so deep in his head he’d left the fuckin’ physical plane. Wilbur blinks once, twice, and discovers he’s kneeling on the floor, hands in the rough dirt, tears on his cheeks. Dream is in front of him. 

Dream.

“It worked? No fucking way, holy  _ shit _ . Wilbur, you remember me, right? Dream, your - your friend? I brought you back, Wilbur. I’m your friend.”

There is a dagger in Wilbur’s pocket. He can’t remember why - or who put it there. He takes the cold metal in his hands and steps forward. Dream steps back. 

“Wilbur,” He says, warningly. “I’m your friend.”

Dream is a better fighter than him, no doubt about it. Everything about his fighting skill is perfect. The only thing Dream lacks is something worth fighting for. 

“No, you’re not,” Wilbur says, sincere. He grasps the blade in his hand and moves toward his enemy. There’s a weapon in Dream’s hand in seconds, but Wilbur moves with  _ purpose,  _ and for once, the master manipulator cannot catch up.

“This,” He says, and aims the shallow blade for Dream’s cold heart, “is for Tommy.” 

There’s a buzz in his pocket. He doesn’t need to read the alert on his communicator to know what it says:  _ Dream was slain by Wilbur Soot.  _

* * *

He drops the dagger on Dream’s lifeless body. He can’t remember how many lives the man had, but there’s no way in hell Wilbur’s sticking around long enough to see if he respawns or not. 

He flings the door open with enough brute force to take the hinges off and frowns at the feeling of wood under his fingernails. It’s a weird thing to have feeling again, after all those months of being dead. Ghostbur couldn’t feel - he hovered above the ground and what objects he could touch he couldn’t feel. Now that Wilbur’s back and alive it’s almost like he can feel every fibre in his sweater graze against his skin, every strand of hair curl against his forehead. He can smell, too, something his ghostly form couldn’t, but he kind of wishes he couldn’t: all that hangs in the air is the metallic smell of Dream’s blood. 

The revival room is built like a bunker, deep at the bottom of the chasm that is L’Manberg. Great, rising cliffs flank the sides of the hole. His neck hurts from where it’s angled to stare up.  _ Fuck,  _ he thinks, taking ahold of the rubble and moving up.  _ Parkour gods - now would be a great time to help me out. _

The dirt crawls underneath his fingernails and slips under his feet as he scrambles up. Wilbur moves his foot up to where he guesses a foothold is and - misses. 

“Fuck,” He whispers, holding tight to the knobbly root and watching the rocks fall down to the bottom of the crater.  _ L’manhole _ , his brain suggests, and he laughs in spite of the situation. 

“Wil -  _ Wilbur? _ ” 

He looks up. The voice is incredulous, and its owner is a fiery-faced young woman, peering over the edge of the hole, face framed by unruly locks of blonde. The moonlight passes over her and Wilbur’s heart aches. “Niki?”

She extends a pale hand, and he grasps it. Wilbur is immediately reminded of them shaking hands over a brand-new country, holding hands in front of the sunset, flag flying high in the background.

“It’s good to see you,” Wilbur says, and means it. “How’ve you been, Niki?”

Niki doesn’t answer. As soon as he’s hoisted over the edge of the pit, she dives at his chest in a hug. “I missed you, Wil. The  _ real _ you.” 

“I missed you too,” He says. It’s - It’s good to be back. Properly. Not Ghostbur, not that insane, horrible echo of himself that he’d become before his death - just him. 

“Wil,” Niki says, and she sounds heartbroken. “I burnt L’Mantree.”

When he doesn’t answer, she reels backwards, pulling herself away from the hug to stare at him. “L’Manberg wasn’t the country we made anymore, Wil, you have to understand. You weren’t there – everything went to shit – “

“Niki,” He says, and holds her again. “I understand. I’m proud of you.”

They stay like that for another second, just them against the world. He hadn’t realised how much he missed her.

A lantern bobbles over the hillside. Over the top of Niki’s head, Wilbur can make out three figures – one short, one tall, one looming. “Niki,” The short one says, breathlessly. “What – what happened? We got the alert – Dream’s dead?”

Tubbo has changed so much and not at all. He’s still wearing his trademark clothes, buttons askew, but his eyes are absent of their usual childish sparkle. His face looks bare without his usual grin. Behind him, the looming figure snakes a hand out to touch Tubbo’s shoulder.  _ Ranboo _ , Wilbur realises.

“Yes,” Niki confirms. “Wilbur – Wilbur’s back, Tubbo.”

“ _ Wilby _ ?”

Wilbur’s head snaps up, because only one person has ever called him that. A toddling five-year-old with too-long golden hair and an alarmingly crude vocabulary; his baby brother. It’s been a good decade since Wilbur’s heard the nickname. His heart pounds.

There’s a lantern in Tommy’s hand, rusted and dim, but its light still illuminates his brother entirely. Tommy was always skinny, alarmingly so, but now there’s no other word to describe him but  _ emaciated.  _ Wilbur can see the stark outline of his trachea, his bobbing adam’s apple, the joints in his elbows, the hollows of his cheeks. His eyes are sunken. His free hand is trembling. “Tommy?”

Tommy takes a step back, and the light in his hand shakes. His shadow crawls up a still-standing billboard. Wilbur half expects his little brother to erupt into swears, to cuss him out – to – to hug him, maybe. He’s not expecting this kind of reaction. “I need – can I have a moment?” Tommy asks, voice trembling, and – fuck. Tommy never used to ask, just take.

“Of course, Toms,” Wilbur says. “Take as much time as you want.”

Tommy looks surprised at that. He steps backwards, following his footsteps from where he’d appeared at the grassy spot opposite his old house. He turns back, almost as an afterthought. “Wil? You killed – him, right? He’s dead?”

“For now,” Niki mumbles darkly, and Wilbur shoots her a look.

“Yeah. I’m not sure the extent to what he did, but I know he hurt you. He hurt everyone.”

Tommy nods at that. It looks like it physically pains him to admit that to himself. Wilbur wants nothing more to scoop him up in a bone-crushing hug and take him far away where nothing in his godforsaken country can hurt him anymore, but he knows he’s on the list of people that’ve hurt Tommy. Perhaps there will be a day where his little brother can forgive him – perhaps not, but Wilbur doesn’t want to think about that. He watches Tommy disappear and prays he’s only leaving for a breather. 

“Wilbur?”

He turns around. A netherite-clad figure atop a horse stands at the peak of the hill, Tommy’s ramshackle hut behind him. He dismounts, and for a second Wilbur thinks the newcomer might be Technoblade, or worse, Dream, but he removes his helmet and a mop of brown hair tumbles out, and Wilbur relaxes, but only slightly. “Sapnap.”

The man raises his hands, open-palmed. “Hey, man. I’m on your side now. Chillax.”

At his side, Niki steps forward. “Dream is your best friend. You’re not going to turn on Wil – on us because he’s dead?”

Sapnap shakes his head. “Dream  _ was  _ my best friend. I don’t – I dunno who this man is anymore.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Wilbur sees Tubbo lower his head. “Do you know how many lives he had? If he told anyone, it would’ve been you.” 

There’s a pause. Sapnap shifts the bag on his back and pulls on the reins of his horse, sighing. “There was a time when I wondered if he was human, y’know. He was too good to be, too adept at fighting, parkour. You name it, Dream was the best at it. But he had human faults – and he died like us, too.”

“Died?”

“Too many times to count,” Sapnap smiles tiredly. “He was always throwing himself in front of George and I.” Wilbur follows his eyeline to the obsidian grid above the clouds, at the glimmering redstone repeaters atop it. “I wonder where that man went.”

The group falls quiet.  _ Too many times to count _ , Wilbur thinks. He knows that’s all the rest of them are thinking about too.

“There’s a prison,” President Tubbo says, slowly, “just outside of L’Man – just west of here. Dream commissioned Sam to build it. It’s ready and functional, and supposedly extendable.”

“Impenetrable,” Tommy corrects, coming back over the hill. “You mean impenetrable, Tubbo.”

Wilbur meets his little brother’s gaze.  _ What do you want to do?  _ He asks wordlessly, searching his brother’s eyes.  _ It’s up to you. You make the call. _

Tommy hesitates for a second, then sets his jaw and looks up with new ferocity. “I want Dream to know what it felt like. Lock him up, Wil.”

Wilbur sinks onto Tommy’s old bench. He glances at the chipped jukebox beside the bench and then back at his friends. “Dream imprisoned. All in favour?”

There isn’t a single hand not in the air.

* * *

The SMP starts with Dream, and it ends with him. They catch him before he respawns and follow Sam as he locks Dream’s bed behind metres of solid wall and traps. It’s a sombre moment, but a uniting one – a band of friends, hands clasped together in front of the great blackstone walls of prison.  _ This is the end _ , Wilbur muses, eyes flitting from Quackity to Karl, Bad to Skeppy, to George, Niki, Fundy, Ranboo, Tubbo, Tommy. Everyone is here. They’ve been through hell and high water, and they all made it. 

Niki breaks the silence. “Where do we go now?”

“We could rebuild,” Tubbo says. “We’ve done it before.” 

Tommy shakes his head. “I - L’Manberg was my first real home - was  _ all  _ of our homes, but it’s properly gone now. Now that - that  _ Dream  _ is gone, I think it’s time we move on.”

Wilbur blinks in an effort to keep the tears brewing in his eyes at his brother’s words at bay. Tommy’s right. There was a time where Wilbur would die -  _ did  _ die for this country, but now there’s nothing but painful memories here. He squeezes Tommy’s hand: short, short, long, short, short.  _ I love you _ .

Tommy looks up and smiles a real smile. In his peripheral vision Wilbur sees Niki rest her head in the crook of Eret’s neck and wrap her arm around Fundy’s shoulders. He watches Tubbo smile, a proper, childish grin, watches George joke with Quackity and laugh with Karl. 

“Tommy?” Skeppy steps forward. “I believe I have something of yours.”

He pulls a shining, unscathed vinyl disc from his pocket. Cat glints in the evening sun. Tommy reaches forward tentatively to take it. He turns to Tubbo, ecstatic, and the President hands him a battered jukebox from his inventory, grinning. Tommy slides his disc in. The lilting notes of Cat fill the air and he closes his eyes. Wilbur watches his shoulders rise and fall with an exhale.

“Goodbye, L’Manberg,” Tommy whispers, and raises his hand toward the sky. Wilbur throws an arm around his little brother and tugs him close. There’s a lot left to do - confront Phil, Technoblade, find a new server - but for now the air is peaceful. For now, they can relax. 

“Goodbye, L’Manberg,” He says. 

Wilbur Soot closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not particularly proud of this but anywayjhfjskdhfdk hope you enjoyed guys. i love you all so much <3 thank u for reading. 
> 
> tumblr: wednesdayyevening   
> discord: roonilwazlib#2622

**Author's Note:**

> love u all thank u for reading <3 come ask me things on my tumblr im so very bored. tumblr: wednesdayyevening


End file.
